


Arctic

by clotpoleofthelord (plantainleaf)



Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: Alaska, Alternate Universe, Community: romancingmcshep, Flying, Journalism, M/M, Writers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-02
Updated: 2015-02-02
Packaged: 2018-03-10 02:49:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,943
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3273950
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/plantainleaf/pseuds/clotpoleofthelord
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Prompt: No one can get an interview with the reclusive John Sheppard, a former military pilot who retired to a remote homestead in Alaska and then proceeded to write a bestselling novel. Reporter (and self-avowed city slicker) Rodney McKay is determined to get Sheppard's story, as he is tired of covering the puff pieces for his paper. He talks someone into flying him out to John's island, only to get stranded there when a major snowstorms hits.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Arctic

**Author's Note:**

> For Romancing McShep prompt #90!

“It’s ridiculous to waste my talents this way,” Rodney grouses, pushing away from his desk and spinning his chair towards Radek. “I could have been a scientist, you know. I could be getting a Nobel right now–” ****

“–I don’t see you with a Pulitzer, though,” interjects Aiden, and Rodney glares.

“Ha, ha. Very amusing.” He points at his screen accusingly. “But no, I’m covering Peter Kavanagh’s City Council run instead. _Kavanagh._ As if that idiot has a chance.”

“The polls have him at thirty six percent, Rodney,” says Radek, still not looking away from his own screen. “It is not so wild an assumption that he may win.”

“Ugh. There’s no way.” Rodney rubs a hand over his eyes. “You! Ronon. What’s that you’ve got? I need a distraction.”

“Book,” says Ronon.

Rodney rolls his eyes. “Yes, I can see that.”

Ronon stares at him for a long few seconds, then shrugs and goes back to reading. Rodney is eyeing him suspiciously, about to retort with something witty, when the door to Elizabeth’s office opens. 

“Rodney, everyone, speaking of books, I assume you’re all done with your pieces for the fiction issue?” Rodney’s mouth slams closed and his eyes dart away from hers nervously.

“One book, five thousand words, due in two weeks,” continues Elizabeth. “Remember, this is a way to let our readers get a glimpse of who our staff members are, so choose wisely.” She gives Rodney a pointed look and shuts the door.

“Ridiculous,” mutters Rodney. “ _Nobel Prize._ ”

“Picked your book yet?” asks Aiden, scooting his chair over to Ronon’s desk. “I’m doing _The Postman_.”

Ronon tosses his book on his keyboard. “Kerouac. _On the Road._ ”

“How about you, Radek?”

“I have picked one, yes, but you will not have heard of it,” replies Radek. “Rodney?”

“Every year, we have to do this,” Rodney complains. “Every year with the ‘get to know the staff’. No one wants to get to know us. They barely want to read our paper. Why would they want to know more about who writes it?”

“And every year, you find something at the last minute, yes? You can do this again. You are a very smart man, Rodney, as you frequently remind us.”

Rodney lets out a long huff of air. “Yes, yes, I’m a genius, I’ll find something this year. I have plenty of time.”

***

“Oh, _crap._ ” Rodney stares at the email from Elizabeth. 

“Let me guess,” says Aiden. “You never got around to writing your book review.”

“Shut up, I’m a very busy man!” Rodney glances around the office frantically. “I don’t have _time_ for this kind of thing. A-ha!” Ronon’s book is still sitting on his desk, barely peeking out from behind his monitor. Rodney leans out and snags it, pulling it into his lap. “ _Atlantis_ , huh?” He flips it open. “Okay, okay, this could work.”

“Rodney, you know it’s due in–” he checks his watch, “–eighteen hours, right?”

“Shh, I’m reading.”

***

So the book isn’t _completely_ terrible, Rodney has to admit as he turns the last page. The science is of course totally absurd (wormholes, _really_?) but it’s internally consistent, and the dialogue is snappy. Whoever wrote it has a pretty good grasp of math, and they make a convincing argument.

And, okay, the story is compelling. Bizarre space vampires aside, he’s fascinated by the idea of a base in another galaxy. What would it be like, to be so cut off from the rest of the world, he wonders?

There’s light creeping in the window and he looks up absently, wondering if the streetlight got hit by another bird and pointed at the window, and that’s when he realizes that that’s the _sun_ , and he’s been up the entire night reading this stupid novel. He can’t remember the last time he did that, at least for _fiction_.

He flips it over, sticking a napkin in to mark his place, and looks for the “About the Author” section. The back has just a few reviews, though, as well as a brief summary. The inside of the back cover is blank, and the last few pages are useless as well, just the final moments of the story he’s just read and a few ads for similar books from the publisher.

“Who _is_ this guy?” he mutters, heading to Google.

Nineteen google searches later, he’s no closer to the elusive J. Flanigan. There are thousands of J. Flanigans in the phone book and on google, and that’s just in the US.

“Good choice,” says Elizabeth approvingly in his ear, and Rodney nearly falls out of his chair.

“Elizabeth!” he chokes out, righting himself. “I, um, didn’t hear you come in.”

She leans back against Ronon’s desk and smiles at him. “Well, I’m glad to see you working so hard on this assignment, Rodney. I didn’t think you’d be so enthusiastic.”

“Well,” he says, then clears his throat. “You know me, always a team player. But, um, I might need some more time. To, to make sure I do a thorough job on this one. You know. Wouldn’t want to submit something that’s not my, um, best work.”

“Sixteen hours, Rodney.” She pushes off from the desk, starts towards her office, then stops and turns back towards him. “You know, no one’s gotten an interview with Flanigan. Not a single paper, magazine, or blogger. I’ll give you ten days if you can get him to give you an interview. I hear he’s in Alaska.”

Suddenly, he has the uncomfortable sensation that she knows exactly what he’s doing, and is just playing along. 

***

Rodney has spent twenty years in journalism, and nearly a decade before that working for CSIS, so finding one guy should _not_ be this difficult.

But he’s seven hours into his ten day extension, and he’s no closer to tracking this guy down than he was when Elizabeth breezed through the office.

Aiden and Radek have both tried to say hello and been rebuffed, and when Ronon tried to grab his book back he’d gotten a glare so fierce he’d actually backed off. There are 250,000 adult men in Alaska, and honestly, that’s as far as he’s gotten. The publisher’s been almost zero help–he called the number on the website, but they just told him the author didn’t accept media inquiries and to have a nice day, and transferred him to someone who offered him a free copy of their latest releases. The two facts he _does_ get out of it, though, is that that he’s somewhere remote, and that the J stands for John. However, that’s not actually that helpful, since John is the most common J. Flanigan, anyway. Still, it narrows it down a bit.

“Who writes a bestseller and then doesn’t take the credit,” he grumbles aloud, flipping through it again. He stops, though, staring at a page near the center. “Akutan, Akutan,” he mutters. “Why is that planet so familiar?”

“Plane,” offers Ronon. “Crashed in Alaska in World War II.”

“It’s an island, too,” says Aiden, rolling over to glance over Rodney’s shoulder and pointing at Rodney with his bagel. “That’s why they named the plane that.” He reaches over Rodney to pull up Google Maps and types quickly. “Right there. I served with a guy who flies out of there.”

Rodney leans back to stare at him. “Seriously?”

Aiden grins. “Yeah, my buddy Evan Lorne. He’s got a little plane, I hear. We flew together a couple times. He’s a good guy.”

Rodney thinks back to the book and the fascination with aviation evident in the text. The protagonist was a pilot, flying all kinds of alien ships. Maybe it was just a coincidence, a word the author heard and liked, but–

He yanks the keyboard back from Aiden and heads back to the phone book, and a quick search confirms it. There’s a John Flanigan living in Akutan, Alaska, and Rodney would bet his future Pulitzer that he’s the John Flanigan he’s looking for.

It’s easy to get Elizabeth to agree to let him take the trip–it’s not like he does much travelling, so his per diem budget for the year is still untouched. And the paper has plenty of airline miles to redeem to cover his fare.

He can’t quash the shiver of glee that runs through him as he plans the trip. Journalism isn’t exactly the action-packed career he’d imagined, way back in school, and even though he’s relatively content (despite the aforementioned lack of a Pulitzer), he can admit to missing certain aspects of his earlier consulting work in security. Doing this, just flying across the country on the possibility of a lead? Well, he can’t help being a little excited.

***

Of course, twenty two hours, four airports, and three planes later, he’s not so nostalgic for fieldwork. He spent half an hour trapped in Logan’s security line, two hours delayed in Seattle, ten frantic minutes sprinting through Anchorage, and he’s only had two meals and four cups of airplane coffee. He’d run by a Starbucks in Anchorage and stared at it longingly, but he hadn’t been able to stop.

Now he’s getting climbing out of his seat and fighting his way down the aisle of the plane to the door, where a rickety-looking rolling staircase is pressed against the plane’s door. The sky is still dark and the lights are dim on the terminal.

“Welcome to Unalaska,” says the stewardess, smiling at him. “I hope you enjoy your stay!”

He’s too tired to even feign politeness as flakes of snow swirl around the staircase and into his coat.

“This is why I left Canada,” Rodney grumbles to no one in particular, tucking his scarf more firmly around him and shivering. It’s a short walk from the plane to the gate, but the wind is blowing harsh and cold and he’s been in transit for nearly a day already. “I should have been an astrophysicist. Nice warm lab, lots of coffee, no going outside–” he pushes open the door, giving his suitcase a yank as the wheels catch in the ice, and collapses in a hard plastic chair. He’s got a layover of about an hour, he thinks, although Aiden’s friend Evan hadn’t exactly been all that specific about the plan. _Around 6 or so_ , he’d said on the phone. _I’ll meet you at the gate._

Rodney had answered, _What gate_ , and Evan had laughed and said, _Don’t worry, I’ll find you._

Rodney’s seeing now why he was so sure. Unalaska Airport isn’t exactly big–it’s just one large room with stanchions designating the security checkpoint, and there’s only one runway and one gate.

He pulls out his phone and flips it off of airplane mode, but the cell icon in the corner stays barless. “Oh, that’s just great,” he says, ignoring the woman who shifts her belongings further away at his angry muttering.

By 6:22, he’s getting to the end of his rope. There’s no service and no internet, and there’s not even an information desk. There’s a security guard at the security line, but when Rodney asks him if he knows when Evan Lorne’s plane is arriving, he just stares at him for a moment before saying _Not my problem_ and turning back to his screen. Rodney thinks about arguing, but a voice in his head that sounds a lot like his sister Jeannie reminds him he’s still a foreign citizen in the United States, despite his green card and twenty years of residency, so best not to antagonize the TSA.

There’s a payphone by the outside door, though, and he keeps glancing at it. He gives himself another half hour before he’s likely to snap and leave the secure zone to use it. He has this Lorne guy’s number somewhere on paper, he’s sure. 

He’s staring longingly at the vending machine just past security when footsteps sound behind him and a voice says, “Mr. McKay?”

Rodney cranes his neck around, wincing as something crackles. “Yes! That’s me!” He stands. “Mr. Lorne?”

The guy is tall, lanky, with a fleece top under a parka and a pair of aviators tucked in the open vee of his shirt. He’s also very, _very_ attractive, and it takes Rodney a minute to get that he’s saying something, because wow, he’s distracted by the man’s ridiculous hair.

“–John Sheppard. Evan’s got food poisoning. He asked me to come get you instead.” He shrugs. “He would have sent you an email, but...” 

“No internet. Yeah. Got that.” He pushes himself out of the seat with a groan, and the guy’s–John’s?–face quirks into a grin, which doesn’t do anything to ameliorate his attractiveness. He holds out a hand and Rodney shakes it absently. 

“Here’s the flight plan, if you want proof,” says John, handing Rodney a creased piece of paper. Rodney takes it and glances through, noting his name and Evan Lorne’s, and sighs. 

“So, you’re a certified pilot, right? Not just some guy Mr. Lorne found on the street?”

“Real pilot. Got a license and everything.” John starts toward the door. “You ready to go? Or do you want to stay here and chat?”

Rodney gathers his bag, shoving his phone in a pocket. _I knew this was a bad idea,_ he thinks, glancing nervously at John’s back as he leads him out a side door.

The plane is small and Rodney halts ten feet away, staring at it suspiciously. “I thought this was a passenger flight, not a paper airplane.”

“It _is_ a passenger flight,” says John, stopping beside him. “You’re a passenger.”

“Oh, I can already tell this is going to be _fun,_ ” Rodney grumbles.

John leads him up to the plane and opens the rear door, gesturing to Rodney’s luggage and taking it as Rodney hands up first his suitcase, then his laptop bag.

“Ugh,” says Rodney, settling in the seat and shivering, willing the cockpit to heat up faster as they taxi down the runway.

John speaks into his radio, bantering a little with air traffic control and getting cleared to take off, and ignores Rodney completely.

It’s cloudy and dim, the sun still down for a while yet, and the plane rattles a little as it picks up speed.

“Hold on tight,” says John, and pulls up on the throttle.

The plane pops up smoothly, and they’re in the air. Rodney grins a little as he watches the little airport drop out from beneath them–sure, he’s been travelling for almost a day, but flying is still so _cool_. Especially when he’s seeing it from the cockpit, something he’s never done before. He forgets the cold for a few minutes as they burst through one cloud layer, then another.

“Been to Alaska before?” asks John casually as they even out at their cruising altitude.

Rodney shakes his head. “I’m from Toronto. I never particularly wanted to go any further north.”

“I kind of like it here,” says John, adjusting a dial and glancing out the window. “Quiet. No one to tell you what to do.”

Rodney snorts. “Not me. If I can’t get pizza within ten minutes, I don’t want anything to do with a place.”

John raises an eyebrow. “Then you might be in the wrong place. What are you even doing in Alaska?”

“Um.” Rodney thinks a minute, brain racing. It’s not a large town, just a thousand or so, and he doesn’t want to tip anyone off what he’s there for. “Just doing some research,” he says, trying to look casual. 

“Research, huh.” John tugs the throttle towards him and the nose lifts a little.

“I’m writing a book. About, um, fishing.”

John raises an eyebrow at him, but doesn’t question further. The plane continues to rise until they pop out from the clouds into clear, dark night sky and Rodney can’t help let out a gasp at the night sky spread above them.

It’s filled with stars, glowing shades of white, spread in a trail across the sky. The moon is nowhere to be seen, but that just makes the stars look brighter, he thinks, and he leans towards the window, face pressed against the glass. The front lights of the plane leave little trails of glow through the clouds, illuminating rippling grey and smooth white, and it’s one of the most beautiful things he’s ever seen.

“Uh oh,” says John, grabbing his radio and pressing the button a few times. “Air Control, this is _Lantea_ , over.” He waits a moment, frowning. “Air control, this is _Lantea_ , please respond.”

“What?” asks Rodney, twisting back around and leaning forward in his seat. “What’s wrong?” 

“Nothing, yet,” says John, distracted. He presses some buttons, and Rodney suddenly wishes for some aeronautical expertise, because he’s pretty sure whatever’s happening isn’t good.

“Air control, Akutan, please respond. This is _Lantea_ , requesting flight plan change.” John’s frowning now. “Radio’s down,” he says to Rodney, a little too casually. “And the weather’s picking up.”

“What does that mean?”

“Well, we might have to make an unscheduled stop, that’s all.”

He casts a wary eye at the snow swirling outside the window. It’s ominous, now, instead of beautiful, and it’s much, much denser than before they began their descent. He turns to look at John, whose nostrils are flaring and whose forehead is drawing tight. “Oh god, you’re worried. We’re going to die, aren’t we?”

“Calm down, McKay,” snaps John. “We’re going to be fine. Late, maybe, but fine. Just let me–” he flips a few switches, then repeats his radio call, to no avail. 

Rodney watches, heart pounding. The plane is shaking, now, buffeted back and forth in winds Rodney was sure weren’t this strong a moment ago.

There’s a burst of static from the radio and John winces and calls again to air traffic control, to no avail. He turns to Rodney, face grim.

“Okay, so, we’re gonna have to go with plan B.”

“Plan B?” asks Rodney. “There’s a plan B? I thought there was just one plan, that being getting to the airport?” He reaches up and tugs at his seatbelt, reassuring himself of its secureness. “What other plan could possibly be as good as that one?”

John does something complicated with the controls, and his face darkens even further. “Well, there’s the one where we make it there eventually. As opposed to _not_ making it there at all.” He leans forward and grips the throttle tightly. “Now shut up and hold on, McKay.”

Rodney opens his mouth and then shuts it again as the plane drops suddenly through the clouds. The ride smooths out a little, but it’s still unsettlingly creaky in the little plane. “We couldn’t just circle for a while? Up where it’s not a massive storm?”

“It’s just a little turbulence. And no, we’d run out of fuel. And that would be bad.”

“Right. Yes.” He swallows. “So, uh, what’s Plan B?”

John’s eyes cut to him and then back to the dashboard. “I’ll let you know.”

“Wait, you don’t _have_ a Plan B, do you?” Rodney grips the armrests tightly and shuts his eyes. “Oh my god, I’m going to die in a tiny metal tube in the Arctic.”

“Well, that depends on your definition of Arctic,” says John placidly, in contrast to his white-knuckled grip on the controls, and Rodney glares at him. “We’re pretty far below the 66th parallel, McKay.” He tips the plane down again in a quick motion and Rodney desperately prays he’s not going to throw up everywhere, because first of all, _gross_ , and second of all, John is one of the hottest people he’s met and throwing up on him wouldn’t exactly help his cool factor here.

“I know a place we can land,” says John as he levels them out again. He’s having to raise his voice over the sounds of vibrating metal, and Rodney nods frantically.

“Whatever you have to do to ensure I don’t die a horrible, freezing death, go ahead and do,” he yells back, and then he can’t do anything except close his eyes and pray to anything that will listen.

It feels like hours or maybe seconds later when John says, “here we go,” and Rodney opens his eyes to see snowy, rocky land rushing towards them.

Then there’s a jarring _THUD_ and the rushing feeling of deceleration, made less comfortable by the jolting of the wheels on uneven ground. As the plane rolls to a stop, Rodney puts his hands over his face and just breathes deeply, astonished to be alive.

“Come on,” says John, pulling off his headset and setting it on the dashboard. “We can’t stay here. It’s going to get real cold, real fast.” He reaches back and grabs Rodney’s jacket and tosses it at him. “Bundle up.”

“My luggage–”

“We’ll get it in the morning. Right now we need to move, before the storm gets worse and we’re stuck here.” He pushes open the door and a freezing wall of snow flies in, hitting Rodney like tiny knives to the face. He tugs the jacket on, zipping it up, and pulls his gloves out of his pocket as John comes around to open his door. “Come _on_ , McKay.”

Rodney shivers and hurries after John, who’s almost invisible in the driving snow. They’re in some sort of field, maybe–there are trees in the distance, shaking in the wind, but there’s a long open space behind them, as far as he can see (which isn’t all that far, honestly, in the current weather). He spares a thought to the fact that he’s only known this man for about an hour, and that no one knows where he is, exactly, since this obviously isn’t the Akutan Seaplane Base he’d seen on Google Maps.

“Where are we?” he calls, but John either doesn’t hear him or ignores him completely, and Rodney gives up on conversation through the howling of the wind.

He fights through the wind, pushing forward, trying not to drop his laptop bag. He’s glad he left his suitcase in the plane, because even without it, John is just a dark blur ahead of him and he’s huffing to keep up.

He’s also fighting the urge not to panic, now that the adrenaline of the landing is wearing off. Stumbling, he nearly falls into a snowdrift when the wind catches his jacket, but a strong hand wraps around his wrist and tugs him forward.

“Come on,” says John in his ear. “We’re almost there.” His breath is warm on Rodney’s cheek and Rodney leans into his guiding arm, now wrapped firmly around his shoulders. “Not gonna let you die out here, McKay. You’re my responsibility. And I’ve never let a passenger freeze to death.”

Rodney lets out a huffy, “not _yet_ ,” but then takes a deep breath and tries to speed up and match John’s pace.

The next time he looks up there’s a dark, rectangular shape looming ahead, and John tugs him towards it. As they get closer, it resolves into a snug-looking cabin with thick, wooden walls and a door that opens into an enclosed mudroom. John takes his bag and tugs his coat off, then hustles him into the (blessedly warm and dry) living room.

Rodney stands, shivering, in the middle of the floor, trying to let himself heat up, as John builds a quick, efficient fire in the fireplace and flicks on lights. “Sit,” he orders, and Rodney stumbles to the couch and flops down.

Soon there’s a fire crackling merrily and a kettle whistling, and John shoves a mug of tea into Rodney’s unprotesting hands before collapsing beside him on the couch.

They sit silently for a few minutes, Rodney too tired to even protest the tea, as their fingers and toes defrost. 

“So,” he says finally, shifting to face John. “Um. Where are we?”

John shrugs. “My place.”

“Your–” Rodney blinks. “You live here? Is this even a, a town?”

John shrugs again.

“Wait, you have an airstrip?”

“I’m a pilot, McKay. And there aren’t any roads here.”

“You can call me Rodney, you know. Near-death experiences tend to reduce formality.” Then John’s last statement finally percolates through his brain “I’m sorry, what?”

“Pilot. Plane.” John speaks slowly, like he’s talking to a dog or a child.

“No, let’s back up. No _roads_? Where _are_ we?”

John grins. “Welcome to Unalga Island, Rodney. Eleven square miles of Alaskan perfection.”

Rodney wracks his brain, dredging up what he’s read of the Fox Islands during transit. “Um. Unalga Island is uninhabited.”

John glances up at the ceiling and walls surrounding them. 

“No, seriously. Even Wikipedia says so.”

“Well. You’ll just have to update it, then. Unalga Island, population: one.”

“I’m sorry, you live on an island alone?”

John shrugs.

“What do you even–where do you get _food_? What do you _do_?” 

“I fly. I don’t need all that much.” 

“But I mean–” Rodney waves a hand around, the gesture encompassing the room, the house, the whole island, “don’t you get, well, lonely? Here?”

“I like it. It’s quiet. No one bothers me.” He gives Rodney a pointed look.

“Oh, I’m sorry, would you rather I waited outside? Oh, _wait_ , it’s a _blizzard._ And seriously, how does this even happen? It’s a twenty minute flight!”

“Weather happens, McKay,” says John, leaning back on the couch and shifting until he’s facing Rodney. It’s short enough that his raised knee is just inches from Rodney’s, and Rodney tries not to lean into the warmth radiating off him. “You’d prefer me to try and fly us in this?” He gestures with his mug at the window, where there’s greyish flakes swirling in a near white-out.

“Well, no,” Rodney admits, and sets his mug down. “I suppose I should thank you for, um, getting us safely landed, and all that. Even if it’s not actually where I was going.”

“You’re welcome,” John says. “Storm’s not going to let up for another few hours at least.” He stands and rummages in a cabinet. “You can take the bed.”

“What?”

“The bed.” John gestures at the ladder leading up to the loft. “I’ll stay down here.”

“Up there?” Rodney shakes his head. “Oh, no no no. I’m not staying in that, that deathtrap.”

“It’s totally safe, McKay,” says John. “Look.” He climbs the ladder and stands in the loft, leaning over the edge. “Built it myself.” He knocks on the beam beside the ladder.

“That’s comforting,” grumbles Rodney, but he stands with a groan and reaches tentatively for the ladder. “Uh, this is rated for adults, right? Because, well, you’re–” he waves a hand at John. “And I’m–” he gestures down at himself.

“Relax, McKay. It’ll hold. Now come on.”

Rodney lets out a derisive breath, but starts climbing. His head pops over the edge beside John and he drags himself over the lip, scrambling until there’s a solid foot between him and the edge. 

“Okay then.” John sits on the edge, then pushes off to drop to the floor. “Night, McKay.” He curls up on the couch, and Rodney frowns, looking down at him. 

It’s hardly a _couch_. It’s barely longer than a loveseat, and John’s legs are curled awkwardly, knees hanging over the edge. Rodney glances back at the wide, comfortable mattress beside him, then at the really, extremely attractive pilot trying to fit himself under a postage stamp-sized blanket.

“This is ridiculous,” he says, leaning over the edge to glare at John, who looks up to meet his gaze. “You can’t sleep like that.”

“I’m fine, Rodney,” John says, shifting. “I’ve slept in worse places, believe me.”

“I’m sure you have, yes, but there’s no reason to suffer if you don’t have to. There’s plenty of space here.” He waves at the bed behind him. 

“I said I’m _fine_ ,” John insists, but Rodney shakes his head. 

“Seriously, you look ridiculous on that miniature thing. Just get up here.”

A minor staring contest ensues, until John drops his head back on the arm of the couch and lets out a grumbled “Fine.”

“Good.” Rodney settles back on the bed, pulling out his phone. “Still no service.”

“Yeah,” says John. “Sorry about that.”

“No you aren’t,” Rodney replies as John appears over the ladder.

“I’m really not,” agrees John, slow grin spreading across his face as he sits down on the mattress.

Rodney can’t help but smile back. The wind outside is howling, sending little licks of cold through the walls despite the thick logs, and he shivers a little. “So, um, sleep, then? You can have the extra pillow,” he says, feeling generous and a little awkward.

John unbuttons his jeans and shimmies out of them, sliding under the blankets, but not before Rodney gets a glimpse of hairy, toned legs and–

“Wait, are those–” he yanks the blanket up. “Yes, you have Starfleet boxers. Why do you have Starfleet boxers?”

“What?”

“You’re just, uh, not the type,” says Rodney, dropping the sheets and shuffling under the covers himself. “You’re, you’re _cool_. All–” he flaps his hand at John, trying to encompass _pilot_ and _frontiersman_ and _super hot_ in a gesture, “all _you_ ,” he says, finally.

“Star Trek is cool,” says John, tone leaving no room for argument. “That’s just fact.”

“Well I agree with you,” Rodney says. “I just don’t think most people would.”

John shrugs. “Take your pants off and go to sleep,” he says.”We gotta dig the plane out tomorrow.”

Rodney groans. “I knew you were going to say something like that.” But he squirms around until he’s comfortable, shoving his khakis down and tossing them to the side of the bed. “Um, thank you, by the way.”

John turns towards him. “Just doing my job, McKay.”

“Well, this is your _house_. I mean, that’s not part of the service. Even though I’m paying you an obscene amount of money for the amount of actual flight time, so.”

John sighs and rolls up on his side, cocking his head at Rodney. “I mean, I wasn’t gonna make you stay in the plane, if that’s what you’re saying.”

“No, but, I mean, I’m a stranger in your house. In your _bed!_ Not exactly what you signed up for when you told Evan you’d fly me.” 

“I don’t mind,” John says, eyes flicking away from Rodney’s face and down, then back up, and Rodney has a moment of _oh my god_ as he makes a deduction that absolutely thrills him. Not that he knows what, exactly, to _do_ in this situation, but still.

He clears his throat and shifts until he’s on his side as well, mirroring John, and lets his gaze drift downward to where the sheet is pooled around John’s narrow waist.

John gives him a lopsided smile, white teeth gleaming, and Rodney swallows and reaches out for him, resting a hand on John’s shoulder and letting his hand drift down his arm and drop against his waist, where there’s a patch of bare skin where John’s shirt has ridden up.

John shivers a little and scoots closer, and then his mouth is warm and firm and pressed against Rodney’s, long body blanketing him and warming him from lips to knees.

***

Rodney blinks awake to darkness and a warm weight across his chest. He snuggles closer for a moment, enjoying the heat, before his bladder and his need for coffee force him to pull away from John.

He slides out from under the covers and tugs on his boxers, tugging the blanket at the base of the bed up and around his shoulders before retracing their steps last night back down the long hallway to the kitchen.

The coffeemaker is ancient, but it starts up readily enough when Rodney presses the power button, and he hums a little as he fills the tank and scoops ground coffee into the filter. There are two chipped mugs in the drying rack beside the sink, and he lines them up on the kitchen table next to a pile of mail. He’s just turning back to the coffee to check if the pot is filling when he freezes and turns back around to stare at the address on the topmost letter.

_John Flanigan  
P.O. Box 39_

_Akutan, AK 99553_

Rodney picks up the letter and stares at it, convinced he’s hallucinating or something. There’s no _way_ this can be the guy. No _way._

The return address is the Department of Veterans’ Affairs, which is interesting, and definitely a point in favor of this being _the_ John Flanigan. So does the flying, and the Akutan thing. He sets the envelope back down on the pile and stares at it, completely mystified as to what to do.

“Hey,” John comes up behind him. “Coffeemaker work okay?” he starts, then stops a few feet away. “What’s up? You look like you just saw a ghost.”

“I–” Rodney’s eyes flick to the letter on the table before he can stop himself, and John follows his gaze. He looks confused for a moment, and then–

“–Rodney?” he says, something Rodney can’t quite parse in his eyes.

“I–” Rodney swallows and tries desperately to come up with something, _anything_ , that’s not ‘I’m realizing I’m a much better stalker than I thought’.

“ _Rodney_?” says John again.

“In my defense, I didn’t know who you were,” Rodney blurts out. “When I met you, when we–” he clears his throat and waves a hand around helplessly. “I didn’t _know_ he was–you’re him.” He stares helplessly at John, who’s backing away, face going stony.

“Fishing, huh.” John turns and disappears into the dark hallway.

“John!” Rodney calls after a second of being frozen in place. “John, wait!” He follows him down the hallway, fumbling for a lightswitch. The clock on the coffeemaker tells him it’s nearly 8 am, which baffles him a little when he considers the dark, before his sluggish, coffee-less brain remembers, _oh right, Alaska, Arctic, Axial tilt, etc_. 

John’s not in the bedroom, though, when Rodney clambers awkwardly back up the ladder to the loft, and his shoes and coat are gone from the living room floor where they’d been abandoned when he and John had come in.

That’s when he notices the dim light filtering through the back curtains, just a glimmer against the faint glow of the loft’s bulb that trickles down, and before he can lose his nerve he crawls back up the ladder to shove his legs into pants and his arms into his shirt and jacket. He stuffs his boots on haphazardly by the living room couch, and stumbles forward, laces tangling, to peer through the gap in the curtains.

There’s a porch back there, with drifts of fresh snow on the railings. The night has cleared into a beautiful, star-speckled barely-dawn, and there’s a figure, lean even in the bulky coat he’s wrapped in, leaning against one rail.

The sun has begun to make its entrance while he fumbled for clothing and he has to take a moment to stare as he opens the door and steps out into the frigid air.

A thin mist blocks the harshest of the sun’s rays where it’s just beginning to break through the horizon. From here, Rodney can see the water, flat and calm and blue-black except for the little spreading puddle of yellow-gray sunlight. The stars are winking out one by one as the dawn rises up, and it’s like nothing he’s ever seen before.

“Okay,” he says, finally, resting his elbows on the rail beside John’s. “Maybe I see why you like it here, a little.”

John doesn’t reply, but he doesn’t move away, either, so Rodney takes it as a win.

The stand in silence as the sun creeps up, lighting the water and the fresh snow in a dazzle of white and blue.

Finally John sighs and lets his head drop to hang down, staring at the snow in front of the balcony. “Why are you here, McKay?” he asks quietly.

Rodney glances back at the door uncertainly. “I can go back inside–”

John cuts him off with a shake of his head. “I mean _here._ In Alaska. Looking for me.”

“Oh.” Rodney fiddles with the cuff of his jacket. “Um.”

“Because when a guy doesn’t do publicity, it usually gives a pretty clear message.”

“So yes, okay, I did come looking for you. But in my defense, I’m supposed to be a journalist, not some–some _book reviewer_. I figured if I had to do something as stupid as a personal review column I might as well get a trip out of it.”

“To Alaska?”

“Well.” Rodney shifts a little awkwardly. “I didn’t know that’s where you’d be until it was too late.” He turns and glares at John, stabbing a finger towards his face. “And seriously, couldn’t you have picked somewhere a little more hospitable? Hawaii, maybe? Southern California?”

“Jesus, McKay,” says John, but he’s smiling a little, now. “I told you, I like it here.”

“I’m getting that,” says Rodney. “And, um, just so you know, I didn’t expect–well, I certainly didn’t plan on, on _this_ ,” he waves a hand awkwardly between the two of them. “I didn’t expect you to be _hot_ , or that I would _like_ you this much.”

“How _did_ you find me, anyway?” asks John. “Because seriously, I think I’m pretty well hidden, out here.”

“Well, um, I actually only got as far as Akutan. The whole planet, plane, pilot thing wasn’t too hard to figure out. Then, well, you know you’re in the phone book, right? I mean, no number, but your PO Box is.”

“Huh.”

“Look,” says Rodney, laying all his cards on the table. “We don’t have to, to violate your privacy. I mean, I understand–you don’t want credit, or, or fans or whatever. You want–” he gestures at the dark, cozy kitchen around them. “You want this, whatever this is, this empty island and your alias and your manly wood chopping.” 

“And you have an exposé to write,” retorts John, stiffening back up. “And credit to get for it.”

“Well, _yes,_ ” Rodney replies. “But it doesn’t have to be _true._ ”

John meets his eyes, the anger dropping from his face. “What?”

“I mean, it’s just a, a puff piece, John! If you don’t want your story out there, fine. That’s totally fine. We’ll figure something else out. You can be a, a chef, or a policeman, or–”

John steps closer, leaning his hip against the counter and crossing his arms. “I want to be MacGyver.”

“What?”

“You heard me.”

“Like, with the paperclips and chocolate bars and the saving the world? John, that’s not–”

“MacGyver. You make me sound as awesome as MacGyver, and we can talk.”

There’s a smile hovering at the edge of John’s lips, now, and Rodney’s whole body unclenches in a wave of relief. “Well, that’s not exactly–”

“Difficult. Not exactly difficult, is what you’re trying to say.” John grins at him, and Rodney’s tension ratchets down another notch. 

“Sure,” says Rodney. “Cool like MacGyver. Got it.”

***

He uploads the article to the shared server as soon as he touches down in Boston, then catches a cab to his apartment for a shower and a sandwich. By the time he gets into the office, his coworkers are trickling in. He gets up to grab a cup of coffee as Elizabeth waves to him on her way in.

“Rodney,” says Elizabeth, just as he’s sitting back down at his desk. 

“Yes?” he calls back.

“Would you please come in here for a minute?”

Rodney pushes back up out of his chair and walks to Elizabeth’s door, leaning in. “Everything all right?”

“‘The elusive J. Flanigan,’” she reads, “‘is a character just as mysterious as his protagonist. Yet without his tireless work, the citizens of the world would be in grave danger.’ Rodney, what is this?”

“It’s what you asked for,” he replies. “An interview with the author.”

“I can’t print this,” she says, scrolling through. “Rodney, not a word of this is true, is it?”

“I’ve quoted him verbatim,” Rodney promises. “I promise we won’t be sued. It’s exactly what he told me.”

Elizabeth stares at him, and then leans forward and rests her face in her hands for a moment. “Fine. We’re set to go to print in an hour, so–fine.”

“And Elizabeth?” asks Rodney, before he leaves the office. “I’m going to be needing to use some of my vacation days. Just so you know.”

***

Unalaska is a little more welcoming, this time, sun shining through the windows and barely any snow on the ground. And he’s got somewhere to go, this time, not just a vague idea. He walks off the jetway into the gate area and feels his face split into a grin as he spots a familiar figure leaning against the wall.

“Hey,” says John, grinning back, and Rodney is sure his face looks incredibly dumb, but he doesn’t even care.

“Hey. Hi.” he says, and John pushes off the wall and walks over, and Rodney thinks again that emails and phone calls are nothing like the real thing, all slinky hips and impossible hair and stupid aviators in the collar of his open shirt.

“Ready to head out?” John asks, and slings an arm around Rodney’s shoulders, tugging him close.

“We’re going to make it where we’re going this time, right?” Rodney asks, but his voice is more breathless and high pitched than the sarcastic tone he was aiming for.

John tugs him closer, and Rodney can’t resist leaning in to kiss the smile right off John’s face.

 


End file.
